Summer With Spain
by xxkoffeexx
Summary: At the urging of her brother, Monaco decides to visit their neighbor to the west.
1. Chapter 1

**Summer With Spain**

By xxkoffeexx

Disclaimer: I don't own APH.

Summary: At the urging of her brother, Monaco decides to visit their neighbor to the west.

.

_Week One_

.

A thin sheen of sweat coated her upper lip, tempting Monaco to wipe it off with her long, pink sleeve. The sun was merciless, beating down on her uncovered head with every passing second. But she was wearing a slight layer of makeup today, and it wouldn't be proper for a lady to go about wiping her face in public. She had a country to represent and a reputation to uphold.

She was also not alone.

"The tourists usually come in droves from Northern Europe," he was saying in accented English, pitching his voice so she could hear him over the noise of the crowded street. He bent slightly towards her ear to tease, "You came at the hottest part of the year."

Monaco eyed her companion's loose shirt and pants with a longing expression. He seemed completely unaffected by the summer heat, almost thriving in it. "I am aware," she muttered, also in English.

"What?"

"Yes, I know," she said louder, trying to stand straight under the sweltering heat of her pink cotton and silk dress. He turned his head and took in her annoyed flush, the limp blond braid and her ridiculously stuffy dress.

"Hot, are you?" Spain said casually.

The flush reddened. "I am quite warm," Monaco admitted, adjusting her glasses out of habit and wishing for a parasol or a nice cool shady tree.

"What?"

It was too loud. She wondered for the third time why they were standing next to the public market under the unforgiving heat of the sun when there were _perfectly_ nice cafés a few yards away. Reminding herself that she was in the presence of an older nation, she kept her tone polite and respectful.

"I said I am quite—"

"I heard you," he cut in easily, shooting her an amused smile. "It was just a joke. No need to be so stiff, Monaco. You're only here to visit for a couple weeks, so let's just skip the formalities and get you out of that dress, yeah?"

Monaco would have liked to suffer a heat stroke from the blood rushing to her face. Did all Spaniards cut to the chase like this, she wondered faintly, or was every man like her brother?

Spain saw her wide eyes and blinked. "Oh, er, I meant—would you like to change into something cooler?"

Embarrassment made her voice a little sharp. "I'm afraid I don't have anything cooler." That much was true: she'd packed her best wardrobe, well aware of the conservative tradition in this country. Much to her chagrin, nearly every single tourist and native was wearing casual clothes appropriate for the summer weather. Nobody else wore formal skirts except for her.

He gave her a bemused look. "You're going to shop, aren't you?"

"I'm not here to shop. I came here to observe and learn the culture—"

"Not in that dress you aren't," he pointed out bluntly. She pressed her lips, irritated that he'd interrupted her again and that he was right. He gave her a friendly smile and coaxed, "Come on, Monaco, relax and have some fun. It's only for two weeks. And your brother wanted you to enjoy yourself, didn't he?"

France certainly threatened (again) to take over the House of Grimaldi if she didn't come back with her hair "undone" and her glasses "left behind" or something along those lines. She decided not to repeat this to her companion and instead released a small sigh, glancing at several women laughing in their refreshing shorts and t-shirts. Her pink collar slowly felt like it was choking her.

He saw her resignation and chuckled lightly, gesturing towards the clothes shops.

"Welcome to Spain."

.

The first week they visited the major cities—Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Seville—as well as a few smaller cities where the local food was praised exuberantly. The fish delicacies were quite nice, almost (_almost_, she conceded) as nice as Monaco's. The Valencian paella, similar to France's poêle_, _was one of the most delicious things Monaco had ever tasted.

Spain was pleased when she enjoyed the food, and then handed her a simple looking dish. "Patatas Bravas," he said earnestly in way of explanation when she glanced at him dubiously. "You'll like it."

"Potatoes?" She wondered what the red sauce was, and then found out.

He was already handing her a glass of ice water, struggling to keep a straight face as he assured her, "Romano fell for it too. Don't worry, you get used to the spiciness."

She didn't stop drinking until the tall glass was almost empty and her tongue was still burning. Monaco gave him her severest glare, though it was hard to keep it when he was trying so hard not to laugh for her sake. She'd learned almost painfully these past few days just how playful the older nation could be (the incident at the beach, for instance, was an embarrassing disaster that was never to be mentioned again) and how much it contrasted her reserved nature.

Yes, she spoke like an old lady. Yes, he was older than her. And yes, she tended to worry about everything and anything. He was so talkative and oblivious sometimes that it made her want to give him a light smack and a kick or two.

But every time she vowed to stay angry at him, it never lasted, much to her chagrin. He was too cheerful.

Instead, she smiled grimly and stabbed a potato with her fork. "Your turn," she said in a pleasant tone, glasses flashing ominously.

To her dismay, he flashed a grin back. Before she could pull away he caught her wrist gently and guided the bite to his mouth. He swallowed the sauce without a single flinch and seemed to relish her facial expression.

"I'm Spanish ," he told her with a touch of smugness. "Nothing's too spicy for me."

_I'll show you spicy_, she thought huffily, wishing to shove his face in his precious patatas. Wipe that smug grin off his face and then see who was smiling—Monaco spared a short moment of horror at her un-lady-like thoughts, and then gave up. Perhaps South Italy's complaints had been affecting her more than she thought.

"Have you tried Japanese wasabi?" she asked him.

He pulled a face. "Japan's food?"

Her brother once took her to a Japanese sushi restaurant for her birthday, and her experience with the harmless-seeming green paste was not very fun to say the least.

Monaco kept her face blank and said primly, "You should ask Japan for some of his wasabi the next time you see him. He might hesitate to give it to you, but you must insist that I recommended it. He will let you taste it then."

In spite of his earlier reaction, Spain looked intrigued. "Really?"

"If he tries to say you won't like it, then he is lying. I never tasted anything like it."

He was thoughtful. "Then I think I'll ask him."

She smiled.

.

"Have you ever seen a bullfight?"

Monaco paused, fingers deftly redoing her braid that had come loose in the excitement of the festival. "Bullfight? No, I have not." She had to almost shout as a loud din rose in the street, threatening to swallow her voice.

They were in Malaga attending the Fiesta de Verano, or party of the summer, and indeed it was one of the most colorful and robust festivals Monaco had been to so far during her stay. Fish, cheese and sweet red wine permeated the street air, and tourists and natives alike wore traditional Spanish costumes, bright and dazzling like the blue sky.

She had declined the wine, but the exhilaration wafting from the crowd and the thrill after seeing an amazing performance of "Malagueña" made her blood hum pleasantly. There was to be outdoor dance performances, called sevillanas, later on in the afternoon, and Monaco was secretly looking forward to it. Belgium had once narrated, in French, all about the beautiful flamenco dancers in Spain, and ever since then she'd been enchanted.

Spain was practically bursting with energy, the song of his nation and the excitement of his people thrumming an invisible rhythm through his veins. "There's a good fight starting right now," he was saying as she continued braiding her hair. "We can still get good seats. Come on, let's go!"

"Wait," she protested, not quite sure if she wanted to see a bullfight even if it was considered a tradition. Her brother sometimes talked of it, and based on some of his stories ("His femoral artery was torn, sadly—") she was not very eager to witness the event. "My hair is not ready."

He glanced back at her and then smiled warmly. "You look beautiful, Monaco."

That was _not_ what she meant, but he led her through the crowd before she could object further. Her painstakingly-neat braid came undone within seconds and she resigned herself to a simple ponytail as soon as they reached the plaza.

Before going in, Spain paused.

"We don't have to watch if you don't want."

Monaco shook her head, puzzled by his sudden change in behavior. "I will watch. It's tradition, is it not?"

An unreadable expression crossed his face, but he nodded.

They sat in an overcrowded stadium on concrete seats and a blistering sun overhead. Soon there was the trumpet sound, the band music, and then the man in flashy gold ("_El Matador_," her companion enthusiastically informed her) was dancing with the very angry bull.

The crowd shouted and cheered with every pass, every brush with death, and Monaco watched with horrified fascination as the bull was taunted, stabbed, and led merrily around the arena.

Spain himself was sitting on the edge of his seat, cheering when a particularly dangerous move was performed, shouting along with the crowd in his native tongue. He seemed to reflect the mood of the people, which Monaco understood very well, being a country herself. Her country's joy was her joy, its pain her own, and its sadness her tears.

Finally, the matador re-entered the scene to deliver the final blow to a very exhausted bull. Spain was sitting calmly in his seat, but he did not take his eyes away from the ring as he spoke to her.

"People think the color red enrages the bull, but the bull is actually colorblind."

"Then why is it red?"

He shrugged. "It was supposed to mask the blood. Now it's tradition."

Despite his casual tone she saw his green eyes darken and a faint smile stretched his lips. He looked like he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and Monaco was struck by the reminder that this man was, however young and friendly he seemed, one of the most powerful nations in the world. And at one point in history, he was _the_ most powerful in the world.

Various historical facts swept through her well-educated mind, one of them standing out clearly and fiercely like a red flag.

_Conquistador_.

Although the sun was warm, Monaco felt a slight shiver trace down her spine. She forced herself to look back at the arena, just as the matador thrust his sword into the bull.

Monaco shut her eyes tightly. She didn't realize her hand had clutched Spain's arm until she felt his muscles shift, and she peeked up to see the bull dead and the triumphant matador standing alone. The crowd cheered wildly, shouting phrases she couldn't understand even if she could distinguish them.

Then it was over, and Spain was standing with an unreadable expression on his face. She thought he looked a mixture of sympathetic and guilty as he held out his hand.

"Do all your people enjoy it?" she asked.

He shook his head, "Not everyone. There was a time when we… when I… never mind." He cast her a sidelong look and said, "At least you didn't watch the _Encierro_."

"What is that?"

"The Running of the Bulls."

"Ah." Monaco didn't even want to know. She merely took his proffered hand gracefully, accepting his subtle apology even though there was nothing to apologize for.

This time he smiled in his usual happy manner, and remarked brightly, "Let's go to the dance, shall we?"

She agreed fervently.

.

After dinner, they followed the crowds to an outdoor sevillana.

The flamenco dancer captivated the audience's attention to the center of the makeshift stage. Her skirt was long and ruffled, swishing arcs with a flick of the wrist, revealing bare legs and stomping heels. Slender arms curved over her poised head, moving along with the rise and fall of the singer's voice, and she twirled after the guitar's melody.

Monaco was absolutely entranced by the dance, barely paying attention to the translations Spain would murmur into her ear. She was, despite all her propriety, an artist. The art of dance and music was Monaco's pride, as well as the legacy that Princess Grace left behind, and the dancer in her yearned to move with the music.

She didn't notice her companion glance at her whenever she smiled in delight.

Later, when the dance was over and she was still mesmerized, Spain asked, "Would you like to dance?"

She was startled. "I am not wearing the dress—"

"Not flamenco," he teased, already picking up her unresisting hand. "Just dance like everybody else."

Everybody else, she saw, consisted of mostly tourists and old couples freely moving to the guitar strums. She adjusted her glasses to hide her unease. "I am a ballerina," she told him firmly, her blue eyes not quite meeting his.

"And I am not," he returned cheerfully, pulling her to the dance floor. "It's okay. Don't think. Just follow me."

Hesitating slightly, she obeyed and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. He put his hand on the curve of her waist and clasped their joined hands firmly, leading them to the song's rhythm. The warmth of his hand on her waist and the proximity of his body made her chest thud slightly faster, matching the beat of the dance.

She glanced up shyly and met vivid green eyes smiling down at her.

And they danced, Monaco and Spain.

.

A/N: I'm not quite sure why I chose this pair. Maybe because hardly anybody tries to write Monaco? These two are just not as popular, I guess. But I go for the unnoticed, unpopular ones. If I butchered Monaco and Spain's characters, then I'm sorry.

Also, I've never personally been to Spain or Monaco. Everything I wrote was based on my friends' stories supplemented with research and my own imagination. So if there's stuff that are awkward or just plain wrong… I'm sorry. I did it unintentionally.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summer With Spain**

By xxkoffeexx

Disclaimer: I don't own APH.

.

_Week Two_

.

At about two in the morning, Monaco got a phone call.

She fumbled in the dark hotel room for the phone and answered with a very sleepy, "Hello?" Almost immediately she had to pull the plastic object away from her ear as a loud and familiar gabble of French blared through the phone. It also sounded suspiciously slurred. "…Brother?"

"Thank God you're in your room," he bawled emotionally. "If you'd been kidnapped or forced to spend the night with that bastard Spain, I would have flown over there and burned all of his tomatoes and neutered him—"

"Brother," Monaco fought a yawn, cutting him off. "It's two in the morning."

"So it is," he said calmly. "And why are you answering the phone instead of partying away your youth at some risqué nightclub? Hmm? I thought I told you to enjoy yourself over there. I knew that country bumpkin wouldn't be a decent tour guide…"

"...Brother, you are drunk." She didn't want to admit that she'd declined Spain's very polite offer to experience the nightlife, and that every day Monaco had tucked herself safely in her hotel room before midnight. "Get some sleep," she added gently, "I will call you in the morning. Or rather, in several hours."

"Is Spain treating you well?" he suddenly asked in a sharp tone. She blinked in surprise.

"Yes, he is."

"Is he attacking you with hugs or calling you cute every hour?" France demanded.

"Of course not. Brother, what are—"

"_How dare he_!" She winced and pulled the phone away again as her very angry and very drunk brother shrieked again, "How dare that uncouth bastard not find you cute! Who does he think he is? I will gut him where he stands! The blackguard! The commoner! The insolent tomato-breeding—"

"Goodnight Brother." And Monaco hung up.

She laid back down on the comfortable pillow and tried to ignore her brother's words. He was already difficult enough to take seriously when he was sober. He was downright infuriating when drunk.

Or perhaps he was infuriatingly correct? She suddenly wished she hadn't turned down Spain's offer to show her the nightlife. Not because her brother wanted her to "enjoy" herself, but because she wanted to spend more time with Spain. The reason she had not accepted his offer was because she didn't want to impose on his hospitality any more than necessary.

Maybe Spain did not find her cute. Maybe he didn't _want_ to spend more time with her. These thoughts were more scary than she ever thought possible, and her brother's words echoed in her mind twofold.

Monaco got up and disconnected the phone.

Then she fell asleep.

.

There were shelves upon shelves of books. Books of many languages, books of many genres. Books, books, and _books_. The libraries in Spain were not very different from the libraries in Monaco.

Monaco was in paradise.

Her companion… not so much. As she eagerly walked through the aisles, tracing her gloved fingers lightly over the spines of hardcover books, Spain trailed behind at a more sedate pace, hands in his pockets. He seemed a little out of place in the somber library, out of the sunshine and bustling crowds of people.

She pulled her eyes away from the shelves to glance back at him, feeling guilty for making him take her to the nearest library. He had been nice when she asked, of course, even though the older nation admitted he was not much of a reader. Her brother's (drunken) words repeated in her head like a broken record player, driving the guilt in deeper.

Monaco abruptly turned around and told him calmly, "You can leave me here, if you want. I don't want to force you to stay if you'd rather be somewhere else."

Spain blinked. "Why would I want to be somewhere else?"

"Because you do not like the library."

"I didn't say that."

She was taken aback. "But… you said you're not much of a reader."

He gave her a sheepish grin. "Yeah, but I like the atmosphere." He swept his arm in gesture, "There's books about me everywhere. People come here to read about _me_. It's kind of like an ego-booster, you know?" A short laugh.

Monaco nodded slowly, never having thought about it that way. She was a scholar and a bookworm, and she read about other nations too. And of course she had her own private library at home. Her love for reading was equaled to that of her passion for ballet. She had even put on one of her elegant, warm dresses for the occasion, despite the summer heat outside.

"Some of the pictures of me are pretty horrible though," he suddenly added. "They give me a beard every time."

Monaco suppressed a giggle and returned to perusing the shelves. "Then I promise not to laugh if I find such a picture," she promised solemnly.

"Good," he smiled.

.

A couple hours later found Monaco in a narrow aisle, searching for the fifteenth edition of _Don Quixote_. Spain had disappeared an hour ago, saying something about finding him in the sports section.

Upon finding the fifteenth edition, she smiled and reached up for it—only to realize it was too high up. After glancing around to make sure nobody was around, the blond nation attempted a few lady-like jumps, but her gloved fingers didn't even brush the shelf where it rested.

As she frowned at the remote book, Monaco was reminded of a scene in one of the teenage romance novels America had given her as a gift (she'd read it because she was a bibliophile, not because she enjoyed it) in which a young heroine was also having difficulty grabbing her desired book. America claimed such romance novels were educational for young ladies, but she begged to differ. How did reading about unrealistic romantic encounters and handsome men with remarkable timing teach her anything practical in life?

It wasn't as if Spain was going to suddenly sense her distress and come running from who knew where. And it wasn't like Monaco was in any distress anyway.

She searched for a stool or chair and found it at one of the study tables. Carrying the wooden chair carefully, the blond set it below the desired book and proceeded to climb on top of it. The additional height brought her eye level with _Don Quixote_, and with a sense of triumph she retrieved it easily. Just as she was going to hop down, a title of another spine caught her eye, and the scholar couldn't resist grabbing it as well. Then yet another title, just to the left of the chair, grabbed her attention. Monaco was pleased to find so many books of interest on her shelf. Without thinking of her particular position, she leaned out to claim the book, holding the other two with her right arm.

"Be careful."

She started and nearly lost her balance. "Spain!" The young man was standing a few feet away, watching her with interest. She wondered how long he'd been there without her noticing.

"You know, it's illegal to move chairs in the library."

Her eyes widened and she hurried to step off the chair. It wasn't until she heard his familiar chuckle that she paused and realized he was playing with her again. "Don't be ridiculous," she sniffed, and then held out her books to him. "If you are not too busy, do you mind holding onto these until I have finished?"

"Of course." He smiled directly up at her, green eyes warm. She nearly dropped the books in her fluster.

As she scanned the shelf for more potential books, Monaco tried to ignore his presence behind her as well as his comments about her choice in reading material. It was dangerous enough balancing on a movable chair without being distracted by the man she might like more than a friend. After two more books, she turned to drop down from her perch and found Spain holding out a hand for her.

Monaco found this eerily similar to one of the scenes in America's romance novels, and the irony of it made her smile abruptly. "Thank you." She took it gracefully and stepped off the chair, holding her skirts so they didn't get caught. When he didn't let go of her gloved hand immediately, she glanced up. He was gazing at her with an odd expression on his face. "Is something wrong?" she asked curiously.

His green eyes flickered and he commented, "You should smile like that more." She blushed that he noticed.

"Why is that?" He let her take half the books, and then picked up the chair.

"Because you don't look as serious. Or formal."

Monaco followed him out of the aisle, feeling slightly disappointed. "Formality can be a virtue," she informed him haughtily.

He grinned over his shoulder. "Not between friends."

"But even friends need a degree of-"

"Just smile, Monaco."

.

"_Señorita!" _

It was very late, almost midnight, and Monaco was walking to her hotel.

Of course there would be a few rowdy and drunk young men hanging around the shadows at the alleyways. Spain was full of people just like Monaco, just like every other nation in the world, and the nightlife was remarkably similar to those she glimpsed at her brother's home.

Men, she decided after a young Spaniard whistled loudly after her, had at least one thing in common, regardless of nationality and language.

_Testosterone._

More calls. More laughter.

Monaco would have felt very uncomfortable in her plain skirt and blouse, clicking in her low heels down the dark streets at night, if it weren't for one thing.

"What are they saying?" she asked, trying to decipher some drunken Spanish phrases.

Spain smiled grimly under the streetlights. "You don't want to know."

She frowned. It was a learning process for the scholar, and she wasn't afraid of gaining knowledge. Learning the country's language was one of the best ways to be accustomed to the culture. But when her taller companion moved subtly closer to her, his green eyes narrowing dangerously at the snickering group, she decided it was better to hold off on education for now.

"Take my arm," he suddenly suggested. Monaco gave him a worried look.

"Will they...?"

He shrugged, letting her slip a hand around his elbow in a gentlemanly manner. "They'll probably move on to an easier target." At her disapproving expression, he hastily clarified, "Just to flirt. This is a pretty safe town."

She glanced pointedly at their linked arms. He tossed her a grin.

"Just being a proper tour guide, Monaco. Got to treat the pretty foreigner nicely, right?"

"Is that what they called me?"

He seemed flustered. "No."

Monaco kept silent until they arrived at the hotel, where they said goodnight and parted. As soon as she was safely inside, she let a very girlish smile bloom on her face.

He thought she was pretty.

.

It was the last day of her visit.

Monaco was introduced to the famous Spanish paintings of Picasso, Goya, and many others at the Prado Museum in Madrid. After staring at a painting of what appeared to be a pasta rock (it was an unknown Italian painter, but the theme was eerily familiar to somebody she knew), Spain showed her the architecture of old buildings modeled from Gaudi's genius.

"Barcelona has more of his architecture," he explained as they walked down the narrow, unpaved street between faded apartments. "The Sagrada Familia cathedral, for instance."

Monaco nodded, having admired it when they visited the city last week. "The cathedral is one of the most frequently visited places by tourists," she recited from an article she read a few years ago. "Recently there have been concern over the AVE constructing a train underneath the main part of the cathedral."

He sighed, leading them down another narrow street. "Yeah, there's that." Spain glanced up at the sky, a slight frown creasing his brows. "I think it's going to rain soon."

She blinked. The sky was as clear as it had been during her stay. But he probably knew more about the weather here than anybody else. Either that or he was very obviously changing the subject. "Should we head back?" she inquired anyway.

"Nah," he said, "It probably won't rain for a few hours. We still have time." Then he brightened and asked, "Do you want to see my gardens? All the vegetable we eat come straight from our own soil."

Monaco agreed, and they decided to walk because he claimed it was not very far. As they headed out of the city and towards the farmlands, he talked about how he grew up farming. It was growing a little chilly for her white sundress (a gift from France on one of his many shopping excursions) but as long as it didn't rain she could bear it. At least it wasn't blistering hot like the first week, she thought.

About ten minutes later, it began to rain.

"Damn," Spain laughed, not looking put out in the slightest.

Monaco peered through her glasses to find shelter, but there was not a single building in sight. Then she spied a crop of thick trees up ahead. "Over there," she pointed. He peered at the trees and nodded.

"Great." He suddenly grinned at her. "I'll race ya."

The younger nation had to roll her eyes, even if it wasn't considered elegant. "Don't be ridiculous." Then she hitched her dress and ran. He blinked after her.

"Hey!"

He caught up quickly and overtook her, but Monaco tugged the back of his shirt, hanging on stubbornly until they reached the trees. They took a moment to catch their breaths, laughing and panting under the dry branches.

"Cheater," Spain said, recovering first. "You have more France in you than I thought."

"A gentleman always lets the lady win," she declared with a toss of her wet braid. He laughed again and they began to take care of their wet clothes, lapsing into silence as the rain poured steadily.

Monaco took off her glasses, wondering where to dry it. She turned to her companion, who had already removed his necktie and was unbuttoning his khaki uniform, and asked hesitantly, "Do you have a dry cloth on you?"

"A dry cloth? I don't think—" He turned to her and abruptly cut off. Despite her slightly blurry vision, Monaco could see his green eyes widen and he swallowed visibly. "Uh, I don't think so. Sorry."

"That's alright." She frowned at her glasses and then lifted the hem of her dress, wiping the wet lens with the damp material unsuccessfully. "I suppose the rain will—"

"_Shit_."

Monaco blinked at him. While she might not be super fluent in English, she had picked up some words from her brother, and his mutter just now was definitely not polite. "What's wrong?" she queried.

He was avoiding her eye for some reason. "No, nothing." His tanned skin seemed flushed.

How odd. The blond wondered if he was hiding something from her and trying to be considerate about it. With a mental shrug, she reached for her hair ribbons and proceeded to untangle her wet hair, carefully combing the curled tresses with her fingers. She was engrossed in her task for a minute, until she realized her companion was strangely silent. Monaco glanced at him curiously.

He was staring at her fixedly, shirt left unbuttoned and his chest exposed. Her cold cheeks promptly reddened. "Um…" she began uncomfortably.

"Do you mind if I take my shirt off?" His voice was casual, but the intensity of his gaze didn't leave her.

The female nation nodded and turned away politely, a little grateful that he'd warned her instead of just stripping like some other male nations would do without hesitation. Like her brother.

"And will you wear it?"

Monaco began to nod again and then stopped. He had slipped off his belt and removed the khaki shirt, and she blushed at the sight of his bare torso. "Oh no, I'm quite fine," she said hurriedly, trying _not_ to remember a similar scene she'd read from America's stupid romance novels. "I'm not cold at all, Spain. Really. Please keep it."

He paused. "Thanks, but I think you need it more than me." She saw his green eyes trail briefly over her form, and looked down as well. To her mortification, the white sundress had become slightly see-through and did not hide what she was wearing underneath. By the time she'd flushed and looked back up at him, Spain was holding out his damp but very solid shirt.

Monaco took it without protest. The sleeves, though rolled up, were a little long but the length sufficiently covered her sundress. It also smelled quite nice when she inhaled shyly.

There was an awkward silence.

"So," he said lightly.

"Mm," she agreed.

Spain gave her a dry smile. "We're probably stuck here for a while." He sounded apologetic.

Monaco didn't look at him. "...I don't mind."

The rain poured.

.

The night of her last day in Spain, she had a dream.

There was a casino in the middle of the same bullfighting arena that they'd gone to the week before. The casino looked remarkably similar to the Monte Carlo back at home, although Monaco had never gone inside herself. The sun was hot, the bulls were somehow grazing docilely amongst the card tables, and Berlioz' Symphonie fantastique streamed from the sound system.

In the middle of it all, amid bright slot machines inside her private library, Monaco danced the flamenco.

Her scarlet skirts whooshed with every twirl, bare arms raised above her head. She didn't wear glasses, and her hair was full of tomato-red flowers. As she spun and stomped to an invisible guitar, her skin began to burn uncomfortably from the heat of her sweat. Her heart thudded painfully, her every breath labored, and as she spun in a dizzying circle she caught a glimpse of green eyes, tanned skin, and a smile so warm it made her want to cry.

Was this what it was like to be in love? Monaco thought.

She continued to spin.

.

When Monaco woke up, she realized she was incredibly sick.

She was lying in her hotel bed, the curtains drawn to the sun and her body aching from a fever. It was because of yesterday, she realized groggily. When the rain finally stopped, she had to wait until Spain dropped her off at the hotel before taking a hot bath. She hadn't bothered taking any medicine, even though her head ached and her body felt tired.

The blond sat up and clumsily put on her glasses—the metal felt cold and foreign on her flushed skin. She flinched when her sensitive limbs made contact with the cooler air beyond the covers, but she stubbornly moved out of bed.

It was time for her to go home.

The door opened. She turned her head just as Spain walked in. He was carrying a plastic bag, but she was more bothered by the card key in his hand. "Where did you get that?" Monaco attempted to say sharply, but it came out weak and dazed, much to her annoyance.

He ignored her question and instead frowned at her. "What are you doing?" He sounded displeased and she wondered bemusedly if this was his hotel room. It would explain the card key. And it meant she was intruding.

"I apologize," she heard herself say, moving to grab her half-packed suitcase and pink jacket. Wasn't her toothbrush still in the bathroom? That meant this _was _her room. Monaco was irritated by her confusion. "I should have checked out at ten-thirty this morning, but I wasn't feeling very well and—"

He said something exasperatedly in Spanish.

"Pardon?" She blinked in confusion. Then she tripped over her shoes.

Spain was there, steadying her much more closely than he had the other day. "You can just stay right here," he said as he steered her to the bed, "until you stop being so damn formal."

That wasn't going to happen anytime soon, she thought. "Brother is expecting me—"

"France told me to keep you in bed," he interrupted frankly, pushing her down on the comfortable mattress. "If I let you even try to get on a train, he promised to gut me where I stand and set fire to all my tomato plantations."

Monaco sighed. "I'm sorry. He's being ridiculous."

"You're being ridiculous," Spain replied, pulling the covers over her. He slipped off her glasses without warning and placed them on the nightstand, and then sat on the edge of the bed.

"I need to check out at-"

"I've already taken care of it. You can stay for as long as you like." Then he paused. "Actually, I'm kind of glad you got sick."

She made out his slightly flushed skin. "Excuse me?"

"Okay, that was wrong," he amended, running a hand through his hair nervously. "I don't mind if you stay longer. Or forever, even. But then I think France would really declare war, and I really can't afford that right now." Then he muttered under his breath, "He'll kill me anyway for ogling you."

The fever made it difficult to think; it took her three tries before she could find an appropriate reply. "Oh," she said.

He chuckled, not quite meeting her eyes. "You're probably sick of staying here. Romano used to complain about how much it rained, and then you _really_ got sick and I practically had to threaten these people to give me the key…" Spain trailed off. "I'm not making any sense."

Monaco shook her head. "No… I understand. I feel the same way." When his eyes snapped up to stare at her, she blushed.

"You do? Really?" She nodded shyly. He broke into a happy grin that made her forget to breathe for a second. "Then you'll stay for the rest of summer with me? I still have a lot of places I want to take you, and there's plenty more summer festivals to attend." He paused, then added, "But no libraries." Monaco smiled slightly.

"And no bullfights."

He nodded, pleased. "You'll stay?"

She hesitated. "Brother might not be... happy if he finds out."

"Nah, he approves."

"Really?"

Spain leaned forward, propping an elbow next to her head as he smiled down at her. "It's not like he can stop us, Monaco. And if you're happy, then I don't see why he wouldn't approve."

She thought for a moment, already dismissing what her brother might say in light of Spain's simple words. His proximity was distracting, to say the least, and her feverish mind didn't really help her concentration. His vivid eyes and easy smile, which seemed so charming and innocent before, suddenly became a dangerous hazard to her emotional stability and normally rational head. Monaco frowned at this rather unfair trade-off, feeling like a heroine in one of America's (admittedly useful) romance novels and certainly not enjoying the experience. Even _if _the handsome hero was Spain.

"You even braid your hair when you sleep." His voice broke her out of her muddled thoughts, and Monaco became aware of his hand stroking her long hair softly. She swallowed, wishing she could drink some water.

"It's easier to manage," she explained, feeling ridiculously shy all of the sudden.

He looked earnestly at her for a moment or two, during which time Monaco felt herself grow warmer and warmer under his scrutiny. "I really want to kiss you," he said bluntly. "But that's probably not such a good idea, huh?" He was logically referring to her fever. She blushed again.

"Of course." Monaco hid her disappointment quite well.

He turned around and grabbed the plastic bag, which he rummaged through quickly. "Here, I bought some medicine. I wasn't sure which was the best, so I bought a lot—" Packages and boxes of various medication tumbled on the mattress, and Monaco sat up slightly. "I also brought some tomatoes, fresh from the garden. They're the best medicine of all," he informed her proudly.

She recalled he was the reason the Italy brothers were so unhealthily obsessed with tomatoes. She also remembered France's promise to neuter her host if he got too friendly with her, and she cleared her throat. "Thank you, Spain. I'm sorry for making you go through all this trouble." He opened his mouth but she hurriedly continued, "You don't need to stay with me. I'm sure you're busy enough as it is, and I can take care of—"

She squeaked faintly when he planted both hands on either side of her head, his face hovering dangerously close to hers. Monaco pressed back into the pillow, staring back at those vivid green eyes that proved detrimental to her rationale. Instinct urged her to kick him where it hurt the most, but the rest of her remained curiously still, anticipating a kiss that she'd secretly dreamed of ever since the evening they first danced.

The kiss didn't come. Instead, the older nation grinned at her.

"You won't be getting rid of me that easily."

Monaco realized he was teasing her. Again. Her eyes narrowed, all fuzzy feelings induced by those vivid eyes and charming smile gone and replaced by annoyance. "I could always call my brother," she challenged.

"But you won't."

His cheerful confidence made it hard to stay annoyed at him for long. "You're right," she conceded thoughtfully.

Spain was bemused, and then quite smug at her admittance. Before he could pull away from the bed, however, she reached out a hand and touched his face, her fingertips lightly trailing down to the side of his neck at a slow pace. His skin was very warm against her cool fingers, reminding her of the sun in Spain. The heroine in one of her romance novels had done this particular gesture to seduce the hero, with great success, and it seemed to be working on Spain as well. A part of her was horrified by her boldness. A larger part was inwardly pleased by his reaction to her touch.

Sure enough, Spain swallowed and forced out casually, "Monaco?"

She smiled sweetly at him, fever and satisfaction pushing all propriety out the window.

"I don't need my brother to deal with you."

.

_Somewhere in France _

Waiting in the train station, France glanced at his watch again, blue eyes impatient.

"That damn Spain. He said she'd be only two hours late."

Little did he know.

.

END

.

A/N: I wanted to write about Spain and Monaco. What resulted was two barely-chapters of undeniable fluff. But that's what I wanted. That's what everybody secretly wants, I guess.

There was not so much cultural or historical facts in this one, as I wanted to focus more on their relationship. As I said in the previous chapter, if there's anything awkward or wrong with any of the historical or cultural facts I do throw in, I apologize.

Also, America probably reads teenage romance novels on rainy days. I bet.

Thanks for reading. I enjoyed writing this very much.


End file.
